Meeting Victor
by AlessNox
Summary: Sherlock had told John, "I don't have friends. I only have one," and in John's mind he had projected this statement back in time to mean that he had never had a friend before, but this picture put a lie to that thought. That man, with his arm draped warmly over Sherlock's shoulder, was no mere acquaintance. That man was something more.
1. An Old Photograph

John found the picture in a dusty chest in the back of Sherlock's closet while searching for a corkscrew. Sherlock had broken their current one boring holes in a mastiff's femur, and when John had complained that they had no way to drink the excellent wine that their client had given them after solving the hotel theft, he had told him where to find this one. The corkscrew was there, still stuck inside of an old cork with a picture of grapes burned into the side. Behind the cork, in a frame of pale pine wood, sat the faded photo. John brushed away the dust with the back of his hand and stared.

It was a picture of two young men standing beside a tree. John had never seen the first man, a dapper round-faced, dark-haired youth with a warm smile, large black eyes, and a white hat slightly aslant, but the second man was familiar. It was Sherlock. A younger Sherlock, with the same curly head of hair, but somehow even thinner, his shoulders narrow and boyish, but with all of his present height. John found the picture shocking. Not because of the his youth, Sherlock still had those youthful qualities that sometimes made him appear to be twelve, but because of his posture and expression. Sherlock was leaning against the other man who held an arm around his shoulder, and on Sherlock's face was the slightest of smiles.

The smile was honest and genuine, and so unlike the present Sherlock whose face often resembled a porcelain mask. Seeing that smile on Sherlock was like looking into the blue sky and suddenly noticing the crescent moon. You thought that you had seen all there was, and then something new and miraculous appeared that somehow you had never noticed before.

Sherlock had told John,_ "I don't have friends. I only have one," _and in John's mind he had projected this statement back in time to mean that he had never had a friend before, but this picture put a lie to that thought. That man, with his arm draped warmly over Sherlock's shoulder, was no mere acquaintance. That man was something more.

They stood in a wooded grove next to a sleepy elm. John could imagine the two of them walking down a country road side by side. Sherlock bending down to pick up a fallen branch only to toss the stick aside as he sauntered down the path. John wanted to see that Sherlock. The casual, lazy, smiling one who slouched against his friend as he did sometimes against the sofa, all loose and relaxed. John wondered if they laughed together. If Sherlock's eyes would brighten like they did at the start of a new case when he saw him. In the picture Sherlock's eyes were downcast, almost lidded as if the side of this tall young man was the most comfortable place in the world.

A shadow covered the image and John turned to look up into Sherlock's face. He didn't have to ask. The question must have been there in the way that he held his shoulders, or in the stillness of his left hand as he grasped the wooden frame, because Sherlock looked down into John's blue questioning eyes and said,_ "You never heard me talk of Victor Trevor?"_


	2. Wine and Old Stories

The crackle of the fireplace, the glint of flames reflected from their tall glasses, the deep hue of fine red wine, it was as good a setting as any for the exchange of confidences. John watched as Sherlock rolled the wine round and around in his glass. The red liquid growing thinner and lighter on the edges of the arc as it swirled. The wine licked the rim of the glass appearing as if it would slosh out at any moment to stain the carpet or Sherlock's tailored blue suit, but it did not. His motion was perfectly controlled. Sherlock was always controlled. He moved with a kind of grace, a meticulousness of action that suggested that he thought each motion through before he performed it. Every foot, every hand was placed delicately and precisely as if he lived his life within a dance.

When John had first moved into the flat, it had disturbed him. It was as if everything was an act with Sherlock, a show, an affectation. After a while, he had realized that this was just the way that Sherlock was. It was part of his self-image. He couldn't control the world, but he could control himself. His brother Mycroft was the same, although in his case, he tried to control the world as well.

Sherlock put the wine to his lips sucking in his cheeks a bit as he breathed in the aroma. "Hmmm, this is a good," he said before placing the glass down on the table and bending over to pick up the box. He reached inside lifting the cork, holding it between his long fingers before placing it back down and drawing out the photograph.

He held the edges of the frame with his palms, the ghost of a smile on his lips, before they were overtaken by a frown. John wanted to know what he was thinking. He was often curious about the thoughts that ran through Sherlock's brain, but his emotions... John felt that Sherlock's emotions were partially his property. Sherlock tended to ignore his emotions. It was up to John to help him express them because he was his friend. He was closer than anyone to Sherlock. Closer than anyone had been to Sherlock, or so he had thought.

"So, when did you meet him?" John asked.

Sherlock looked up, "Oh Victor?" he said, "I met him in University. I never really got on with most of the people in my class. You remember Sebastian, don't you?"

John chuckled, "Yeah I remember him. Right tosser he was."

Sherlock laughed sharply and then picked up the photo again, running his thumb back and forth across the frame as he glanced at it. Victor was a year ahead of me. In the two years that I studied there, Victor Trevor was my only friend.

"Two years?" John said, "I thought that it took longer to get a degree. Did you graduate?"

Sherlock's frown deepened. He placed the picture on his lap before answering, "No, I dropped out during my final year."

"Why? I can't believe that you found the curriculum difficult. You breathe chemistry."

"Well that was the problem wasn't it? My 'breathing in chemistry'," Sherlock said, "that is until I started to inject it."

John shook his head from side to side. "So did...uh...Victor inject, I mean..."

"You're asking if Victor Trevor took illegal drugs with me? No, he did not, although there was quite a bit of smoking, and drinking, much too much drinking in fact. He was gone by that time. Graduated. I did say that he was a year ahead of me."

"I see," John said. He stared at the man, counting the years from then to now and wondering how he got here. He couldn't help but be surprised that someone so brilliant was a University drop out. How had he gone from there to becoming the world's foremost consulting detective?

As if he had read John's mind, Sherlock answered,_ "It was Victor's father, in fact, who suggested that I take up my current profession. He was a local justice of the peace, known for his kindness and leniency. Victor had bragged to him of my ability to tell any man's past simply by looking at him once. His father doubted it, so when I visited the Trevor estate during the long vacation, I gave him a demonstration._

_"I told him that he was not very highly educated, but had traveled far. A widower..._

_'That's easily seen,' he said unimpressed, 'and you would know from Trevor that his mother was dead.'_

_'Within the last six months, someone has threatened your life.'_  
_Victor sighed in surprise but his father nodded, 'That's correct. how do you know?' he asked._

_'You are a very strong man with no limp, and yet you carry a walking stick, and the stick is more massive that it should be. It has been filled with lead so that it can be used as a weapon if need be. Why would a respected Justice in a country village do such a thing if he had not been threatened?'_

_'Good, good, go on.'_

_'You have been to Japan, Australia, South Africa, and New Zealand.'_

_'True, all true.'_

_'And you used to do quite a lot of boxing.'_

_'Yes,' he said, 'how could you tell, is my nose flat?'_

_'No your ears,' I said, 'There is a characteristic flattening among the ears of those who have boxed for a number of years.'_

_He laughed heartily and asked me if there was anything else. 'You were once intimately associated with someone with the initials JA but you have since tried to forget that you even knew them.'_

_"At this Justice Trevor looked extremely shocked, and he held his heart so that I thought for a moment that he would faint away, but Victor got him some water, and we fanned him and soon all was put to rights. He asked me how I had known the last of this, and I pointed to a tattoo on his arm. It had been artfully covered by another, but I could see that the marks of a J and A were older and the other had been made precisely to hide the first tattoo, therefore a change of heart._

_Justice Trevor said that I was quite the marvel. He suggested that I go into detective work, and when I said that I did not get along with people that well, he suggested that I consult._

_I asked, 'Is there such a thing as a consulting detective?'_

_And he said, 'If there isn't then make the position yourself. Birth is an accident', he said, 'Each man must make his own way in the world.'_  
_I took his words to heart. You could say that I am here today because of him."_

Sherlock took another sip of wine then and John stared at him. He had often wondered what had started Sherlock on the path to become a detective, so he was glad to have finally heard the story. Even so, it didn't explain the picture. Who was Victor Trevor, and more importantly, who was he to Sherlock?

Sherlock gazed on the photo with soft eyes, so John asked directly, "What was he like, Victor Trevor?"

Sherlock rubbed his thumb across the image of Victor and smiled. "He was the opposite of me in many respects. I was morose, snappish, kept to myself. I preferred the inside of a lab to a park. Avoided sports like cricket or punting or any of the activities that my classmates preferred. Victor was warm, friendly, optimistic. He was an outdoorsman. But despite all of his fine qualities, I discovered that he was as friendless as I. We did almost everything together."

"Did?" John said, "Is he...I mean, did he die?"

Sherlock took in a breath and looked up from the photo, "Oh no. Victor Trevor is alive and well. He lives in India. He's vice-president of a chemical company. Runs their Asian operations I believe. I haven't seen him since soon after his father died."

Sherlock put the photo in the box and placed it beside his chair before rising. "Well, I think that it's time for bed now," he said.

"I'm not tired," John said, "I could go a few more hours."

"Alright, I'll see you in the morning then," Sherlock said walking toward his bedroom door.

Going to sleep early? John couldn't remember such a thing happening before. Sherlock usually worked until he dropped. How could he leave when John still had so many questions to ask?

"Sherlock!" John yelled catching Sherlock with his hand on his door knob, "Who is Victor? I mean, if you had to describe him in one word, what would you call him?"

"In one word?" Sherlock was lost in thought for a moment. He looked up, and it seemed as if he would say something, but he thought better of it. He opened the door. Then just before he entered his room he turned to John and said, "I suppose you could say that Victor was...beautiful," he said. Then he left quietly shutting his door behind him.


	3. The Invitation

John found the box still on the floor the next morning when he was straightening the living room. Sherlock had run off to Barts and John had the day off from the surgery. He picked up the photo and looked at it again.

_Beautiful._

Beautiful wasn't a word that Sherlock used often. John did. When he saw a woman, he might call her beautiful, and Sherlock would scoff. "I would hardly call her beautiful, John," he would say, "look at the messy way that she killed that sailor. No one with such sloppy knifemanship could be called beautiful. Say instead that she was fine-featured or pretty. I will give you pretty, but beautiful, no."

So what did he mean when he called Victor Trevor beautiful? John looked at the picture of the man. He looked strong, clear faced. He supposed that he could be called handsome. He didn't appear that much more attractive than other men John had seen before, but then Sherlock took the meaning of words much more literally than others did. John placed the photo on the mantle next to the skull and walked over to the bookshelf. He pulled out the dictionary and read the entry on Beautiful.

**Beautiful**** (adj.)**

**1. Having beauty. **

**2. Containing those qualities that give pleasure and satisfaction. Delighting the mind and the senses.**

**3. Excellence of form. **

John couldn't help but being intrigued. What kind of man could pull out such a word from a rational mind like Sherlock's? He wanted to meet him.

John found himself searching the internet for a Victor Trevor. He ran through lists and discarded people by their age, or their location, before finding an entry which seemed to be the man that he was looking for. He saw the name, Victor Trevor, listed on a company report as vice president, but there was no contact information. He thought, at first, of going through channels. Sending an email to a secretary in the hopes that he would reach him, but he discarded that thought. What he wanted wasn't official. It was private. John was simply curious about this man. If he was honest with himself then he would say that he was really curious about Sherlock. The Sherlock in the picture. This man had known him. He wanted to ask him about him.

He had a right to ask, didn't he? He was his blogger, his apologizer, his interpreter and publicist. If anyone had a right to ask about Sherlock, it would be he.

He continued his search, finding a Victor Trevor on a dog breeding forum. The address listed in his profile was the same city in India as the company where Victor lived. John joined the forum, and sent Victor a private message.

**Hello,**

**My name is John Watson. I was wondering if this is the same Victor Trevor that went to school with one Sherlock Holmes. Is it you?**

**JW**

He sat for a while looking at the screen before he realized that it was a forum and not a phone. He closed the computer and rose to begin making lunch. Sherlock came home just as he had begun to eat.

"No, no, no. You are not putting body parts over my homemade pasta sauce."

"But they have to be refrigerated, John."

"Then wrap them up in plastic, and put them in the crisper at the bottom, but keep them away from my food!"

Sherlock pouted but did as he was told, so John decided to push his luck telling Sherlock to wash his hands and come eat a bit of food.

That evening, as Sherlock sat at his microscope staring at fingernails, John opened up the laptop and revisited the dog breeding site. He had a message.

**Hello Dr. Watson,**

**Yes, this is that Victor Trevor. I have heard of you. I sometimes read your blog. **

**Is there anything wrong? It seems an odd way to talk to me. The phone would be much more direct. **

**V. Trevor**

John typed back.

**Dear Mr. Trevor**

**No, nothing is wrong. I only recently heard that you were a friend of my friend, Sherlock Holmes, and I was hoping to talk to someone who knew him when he was younger. Would it be alright with you if I asked you a few questions about him?**

**John Watson**

The answer came almost immediately.

**Dr Watson,**

**I would be happy to talk to you about Sherlock. As luck would have it, I will be attending a meeting in London next Wednesday, and I would be able to talk to you in person if you are willing. Please respond if this is agreeable to you.**

**Yours,**

**V. Trevor**

John looked across the room at Sherlock. He wondered what he would think about it. He could ask, but it was too rich an opportunity to pass up. He replied.

**Dear Mr Trevor,**

**That would be great. If you are free next Wednesday evening after your meeting, I would be delighted to offer you a drink or two at our flat at 221b Baker Street.**

**JW**

As John waited, he wondered what Sherlock would think when he told him that he had invited his old friend over. Would he be happy, or sad? Would he be indifferent looking at him with that bored face and saying, "You've invited Victor over, how dull." Then another message arrived.

**Doctor Watson,**

**Thank you for your kind invitation. I will be happy to accept, and will arrive at your flat at 7:30pm Next Wednesday if that is acceptable to you. I look forward to making your acquaintance.**

**V. Trevor**

John closed the laptop and rose to his feet. He took two steps toward Sherlock, before chickening out and going up to his room. He didn't know what he was afraid of, but now did not seem the time. He could tell Sherlock about the meeting tomorrow.


	4. Victor

Sherlock was pacing, again. He had been pacing off and on since last night when John had finally got around to telling Sherlock that his old friend, Victor Trevor, was coming over for drinks the next evening.

"What were you thinking, John?" Sherlock had said exploding up from his seat. "What could have driven you to seek out my old acquaintances? Do I call up your old girlfriends and invite them over for tea?"

He had grabbed his coat then and left returning late that evening to begin the pacing.

"Can you please stop that?" John said putting down his medical journal that he was unable to read because his eyes were invariably drawn to Sherlock's movements. Sherlock looked at his watch, and then went on another bout of random cleaning.

Sherlock had spent most of the morning cleaning the kitchen which amazed John. He had actually returned the body parts to Barts and cleaned the chemical spills off of the table. He had also elicited the help of Mrs Hudson to clean the flat. She had polished the bathroom until it shined, only to have Sherlock appropriate it, spending well over an hour there, and emerging from his room looking stunning in a grey suit buttoned tight over his fitted black shirt. He had even combed back his curls with product, shaping them into something almost neat. John sat in his chair just watching the activity. This nervous Sherlock was new to him. Not for the first time John wondered just how close the two of them had been. He banished the thought at the sound of a bell ringing.

Sherlock froze turning his head toward John with a look of horror. John adjusted his striped shirt and blazer, he couldn't let himself be completely overshadowed by his flatmate, and walked down the stairs to open the door.

The man at the door was tall like Sherlock but he had broader shoulders and an overall trim figure that suggested health and vigor for a man in his thirties. He wore a thick brown coat, and gold framed glasses over his round face. His hair was brown with the slightest touch of red. John stepped aside inviting him in, and closed the door.

The man pulled off his leather gloves shoving them into his pocket before reaching out a hand. John took his hand and shook it, but the man did not release it. He held John's hand in both of his as his warm eyes stared steadily down on John's face. "So pleased to finally meet you, Dr Watson," Victor said sincerely, then he smiled.

John had thought the man a bit plain at first, with his round face so indicative of simpletons and children, but when he smiled he transformed. It seemed as if he positively glowed, his eyes piercing and bright dilated becoming darker and he seemed to radiate warmth of spirit even though his hands were still quite cold.

"Welcome Mr. Trevor," John said, "Your hands are cold. Come up, I've laid a fire."

"Please call me Victor," he said as he followed John up the steps. "And yes, I am a bit cold. I'm not quite used to the London weather anymore. All my suits are made for a warmer climate. I didn't even have a proper coat. I had to buy this one at the airport."

Sherlock was standing beside the fireplace when they entered. He turned to face them, and Victor stopped in his tracks. Then he took four large strides to cross the room. Sherlock held out his hand, but Victor pulled him into a hug. "Sherlock," he said, "It's been far too long."

Sherlock stood stiffly in his arms, but as the hug continued he relaxed, putting a tentative arm around Victor's back. The hug went on for several seconds so that John was beginning to feel a bit uncomfortable, before it suddenly ended with a firm pat on the back.

Victor stood back then with one hand on each of Sherlock's shoulders as he turned him from side to side like a doll and stared. "You're looking well. Someone has been getting you to eat. I suppose that I have you to thank for that Dr. Watson," he said turning toward John.

"Well, I do what I can," John said.

He released him then, and Sherlock seemed to deflate a bit as if he had been held taut all this time and only now was starting to loosen up.

"Can I take your coat?" John asked.

"Please," Victor said shaking the coat off of his shoulders and handing it to John. He was wearing a navy blue suit over a teal shirt. It was exquisitely tailored in a way that spoke of money. It had been cut to show off his shoulders and his slim waist. John had never noticed such things before living with Sherlock. Victor smiled when he saw John staring. "I'm sorry, I didn't get a chance to change. I'm still in my power suit." Victor said as he unbuttoned his jacket before walking over to the fireplace. He placed a hand on the mantle and faced Sherlock who stared back. "Well then, old boy, how's it been with you?" he asked.

"Good," Sherlock said, "and you?"

"It's been ripping," he said and then gave another one of those amazing smiles which surprised Sherlock. He looked as stunned as if he had been hit by a cricket bat.

Victor turned toward John then, "I've been reading your blog," he said, "I'm sorry to say that I had only glanced at it before. You're quite a good writer, Dr. Watson, you make it all seem so exciting."

"I assure you, it is," John said.

It was then that Victor noticed the picture on the mantle. His mouth widened and he smiled. "Where'd you find this old thing? Father took this when you came over to my house. Do you remember? We were looking at the old Roman ruins, but you proved that they weren't that old. I still like to imagine that they were. Oh just look at us. We were so young then." He put down the frame and smiled at Sherlock who hazarded a brief smile back.

John found Sherlock's body language fascinating. He was hesitant around Victor, so different from the overbearing confidence that he usually showed. Victor was not at all what he had expected. He had imagined someone more like Sherlock, sharply intelligent and witty, or perhaps even sarcastic and biting like Mycroft. Instead, Victor Trevor was charismatic. He seemed every bit a warm, friendly, successful man. John couldn't imagine such a man as being friendless.

"Please have a seat, and I will get you some wine," John said.

"I'll get it," Sherlock said rushing ahead of him and fleeing into the kitchen.

Victor sat down in Sherlock's chair. His cuffs rode up a bit as he crossed his legs before looking around the room. "Nice flat you have here. It has personality, I like it. And Sherlock has his specimens still, I see. How wonderful." He turned toward John. "I want to thank you again, Dr Watson, for inviting me. I've often thought of Sherlock in the last few years, but my travels rarely afford me a chance to visit old friends.

"No, don't thank me. Ever since I heard of you I wanted to meet you. And it's John, not Dr. Watson. We at least should stick together."

"Like birds of a feather? Good friends of Sherlock being such a rare and exotic species, I suppose."

John laughed. "I suppose that you could say that. Were you a chemistry major like Sherlock?"

"No, I read linguistics."

"But you work for a chemical company?"

Victor smiled, "Purely a coincidence. I am, however, widely read in the sciences and business as well. I entered the company with a very small management job, but my skill with languages stood me in good stead in Asia, and I advanced rapidly. It is amazing how many British citizens go through their entire education and end up with only a spattering of tourist French. It's quite shocking really."

"Some of us, don't even have that," John said looking up as Sherlock entered with the bottle and three wine glasses. He placed the glasses on the mantle and leaned over to twist the corkscrew into the cork only to find a hand covering his. Victor was on one knee.

"Sherlock, is that my corkscrew?" he asked. "You kept it after all of these years?"

"Um..."Sherlock began, uncharacteristically at a loss for words.

Victor squeezed his hand. "Oh Sherlock, that's sweet, but then again, you always were so sentimental."

John raised his eyebrows and glanced over at Sherlock who opened the bottle and turned away to pour. He then crossed his legs toward Victor and continued his questioning. "Linguistics? I'm surprised. I supposed that you and Sherlock went to classes together. How did you meet?"

He smiled, "Didn't Sherlock ever tell you? It's quite a good story."

Sherlock passed a glass of wine to John who took it, but promptly forgot it, so riveted he was by Victor whose face became alive and expressive when he talked. "I was on my way back from chapel, walking my dogs and minding my own business, when this dark-haired young man comes blundering down the path toward me, not even noticing that we were there, and it is quite a feat to not notice a man walking three bull terriers across a lawn on a sunny day. Anyway, he crossed too close to my dogs, looking all the while as if he planned to crash into me, and Tristan grabbed him around the ankle and wouldn't let go.

"The other dogs became excited and began to bark loudly, and Sherlock tried to kick my dog away, but I was having none of that. I tackled him to the ground and then proceeded to pry Tristan's jaws off of his ankle which was bleeding. It was a mess. Luckily one of my boys came by, and I was able to pass off the dogs on him while I took Sherlock to the infirmary."

"Excuse me? One of your boys?"

"Oh, I meant from the church. I was an assistant music director for the boys choir at the time. I had been at the church for a rehearsal."

"You studied linguistics, science, business, and you taught music? You are very well rounded."

"Well they aren't entirely unrelated disciplines. I must say that languages are useful when singing medieval hymns which are invariably in Latin. And music trains the mind in ways that help if you go into science.

"But I digress. Anyway, Sherlock was laid up in his room for over a week, and feeling a bit guilty about it, I visited him every day just to see that he was alright. First it was just a few moments, but as time went on our talks became longer and longer, until I was spending hours there.

"You see Sherlock is a genius. But then, I suppose you know that. Firsts in all of his preliminary examinations and primed for great things. He knew things about chemistry that some of the instructors didn't know, and so observant. It was only days before he could tell me which particular one of my dogs had left a hair on my pant leg or had scuffed my shoes."

"That was only self defense," Sherlock said surprising us with his interruption, "I kept my eye on those little monsters after that,"

Victor laughed, "Oh they warmed up to you soon enough."

Sherlock reached over then and handed Victor the wine. He smiled warmly at Sherlock and took a drink before continuing. "You see, I was a bit of an odd man out at University. So many of the others had family connections, and many of them had known each other from public school, but my interests were so divergent from theirs that I found it difficult to find anyone that I could have an intelligent conversation with. But Sherlock would help me practice my languages, and he knew so much about so many subjects. It was a pleasure to spend time with him. I confess that I hardly gave a moment to anyone else.

"I remember once when I was coaching Robert Warner on the Lord's prayer, I broke out laughing because Sherlock was outside trying to climb in through the window. You understand that these windows were fifteen feet off of the ground!

"There he was singing and I was directing, but at the same time I was trying to wave Sherlock away, so my arm raised higher and higher and the boy kept trying to raise his voice higher." Victor began to chuckle and his hand bounced up and down on his stomach as he talked. His laughter was infectious and soon the other two men were laughing with him. He took a sip of the wine and stood. "That was a good song," he said," An excellent adaptation." And then he opened his mouth and began to sing,

_"The Lord's my Shepherd, I'll not want, he makes me down to lie..."_

Victor's voice was amazing. It filled the room with warm golden tones. John's mouth fell open. Sherlock looked struck dumb. He went on to sing the rest of the verse.

_"In pastures green, he leadeth me. The quiet waters by."_

John stood and clapped. "My, that was fantastic! You have an amazing voice. You could sing professionally."

At that, Sherlock chuckled, and Victor looked over at him and then down. "I suppose that Sherlock is trying to point out that I was, in a way, semi-professional. There are a few albums, but that was long ago."

Sherlock leaned against the mantle crossing one ankle and smiling as he said, "For many years, Victor was principal soloist for the boys of King's College Cambridge."

"Really," John said, "What happened?"

"What happens to every boy soloist. I grew up." He laughed, but it sounded a bit sad. Then he looked up at Sherlock. "Do you still play? I'd love to hear you play something, Sherlock, if you don't mind."

Sherlock rose from where he was resting against the mantle and walked over to his violin case. He took a moment to tune it and then he pulled the bow across the strings playing an arpeggio before serenading them with some of the sweetest music that John could ever remember hearing. John wondered if it was one of Sherlock's compositions. Victor Trevor sat enraptured, staring at Sherlock with a light smile on his face. Sherlock watched him for a while, and then he closed his eyes as was his custom until the last note rang out echoing around the room and leaving a silence that felt like a chasm.

Victor closed his eyes breathing in deeply before opening them again. "I've missed hearing you play. No one else can make a violin sing like you can, Sherlock. But I feel like something a bit more upbeat." Victor jumped up then, slapping his thighs and grinning. "Come on Sherlock, play me a jig," he said.

John smirked, "A jig? I don't think that Sherlock..." but unmistakably the first few strains of an Irish jig rolled off of Sherlock's concert violin. John's mouth fell open in shock.

"Well may you be surprised," Victor said, "Left to himself Sherlock will play only maudlin and depressing things. I was the one who insisted that he enlarge his repertoire to include dance music." And at that Victor began to clap his hands in time.

"Is that a jig I hear you playing, Sherlock?" A voice at the door said. It was Mrs Hudson.

John walked to the door. "Mrs Hudson, I'd like to introduce you to Mr. Victor Trevor, an old friend of Sherlock's from University."

"Pleasure to meet you," she said and he bowed to her.

"Mrs Hudson, I was wondering if I might have the pleasure of this dance," Victor asked.

Mrs Hudson smiled, "Why thank you," she said, "It's been quite a while since I had a chance to cut a rug with a handsome young man." and the two of them joined arms and began spinning around each other on the floor. Sherlock laughed out loud at the sight but his playing never wavered.

Later that evening, after Mrs Hudson had gone to bed, as the three of them sat before the fire listening to one of Sherlock's old recordings of the moonlight sonata, John saw it. He was just starting to feel the buzz from his third glass of wine, and the mood was slow and warm and comfortable. John and Victor had collapsed into their chairs, and Sherlock was sitting on the floor at Victor's feet. He lay down then, the firelight shining through his curls as he propped himself up on his elbow to look at Victor, then he smiled. John recognized that smile.

Victor stretched his arms and legs, and sat up in his chair saying, "As wonderful a time as I am having, I still have a meeting in the morning. You will excuse me if I call it a night? You will, won't you, John?"

"Of course. Let me show you out," John said rising slowly to his feet. Sherlock pulled out his phone and called a taxi.

Victor picked up his jacket, that had been discarded when he was dancing. He put it on and buttoned it. Then John handed him his coat, and he held it in the crook of his arm as he reached out to shake John's hand. "Thank you, John, for a very enjoyable evening."

Sherlock had risen to his feet, and the three of them stood together for a few minutes in a companionable silence until a knock on the door told them that the taxi had arrived. Victor walked over to Sherlock then, grasping him lightly by the forearm. Their arms slid past each other until they were touching only by the fingertips, then he looked up into Sherlock's eyes and smiled before turning away and walking down the stairs. Sherlock ran a hand through his hair and turned toward the fire. John followed Victor down the stairs to see him out. He returned with tired steps before gathering up the wine glasses to take back into the kitchen.

"Well that was nice," John said, "That Victor is quite an amazing person isn't he?"

"Indeed he is," Sherlock said before wishing John goodnight and going off to his room.

John put the glasses beside the sink, and then downed two cups of water to stave off dehydration and a hangover. A beep told him that he had a text, so he reached down to find that he had a message from Victor inviting him to lunch the next day. He replied that it would be fine and suggested the Thai place next to the surgery only then realizing that Victor hadn't asked for Sherlock to come.

Sherlock and Victor got along amazingly well together, and yet John remembered that time in Baskerville when Sherlock had told him, "I only have one (friend)." Sherlock was too precise to have made a mistake on that point. So why didn't Sherlock consider Victor his friend? Was he less than a friend, or more? _'Tomorrow at lunch',_ John thought _'I will find out.'_


	5. A Lunch Date

Sitting in the little Thai restaurant during his lunch break, John ordered his standard, a _Panang_ curry, mild. Victor, who was wearing a beige suit that made him look a bit like a model on holiday, spoke to the waitress in perfect Thai which made her exclaim aloud. She bowed to him before leaving, and when she returned with their order, she served him a dish in a large ceramic bowl that John was sure was not on the menu. Victor picked up a thick noodle with his fork and ate it nodding his head at the waitress who smiled back at him before rushing into the kitchen to tell the cook that he was pleased with the dish.

"That's amazing," John said, "I can't believe that you can just come into a restaurant for the first time, and get the owners to make you special meals like you're family. I've been coming here for years and they've never made me something that isn't even on the menu."

"All you have to do is ask the correct way. I just told her how much I longed for a good bowl of '_radna_'. I can ask them to make you a bowl if you like. Here have a taste."

John would have found it strange to have a grown man offer him food off of his plate if he hadn't eaten so often with Sherlock. Sherlock had nicked more food from John's plate than he ever ate from his own. John picked up his spoon and reached over to take a taste of the rich sauce and wide rice noodles. "Wow, spicey what is that flavor?"

"White pepper."

"I may have to ask for it the next time that I come."

"I'll tell Suchin for you," he said before taking a bite of the shrimp.

John began to eat his own food which was good, but much less exciting, and Victor spoke. "I'm so glad that you could come to meet me John. Sherlock's friends are such a select group, I rarely get a chance to meet one. What am I saying. You are the first other friend of Sherlock's that I've met. He doesn't let people in often."

"That's true," John said, "He does have a tendency to annoy everyone that he meets. I suppose that I just have a thicker skin than most."

"I'm glad. I'm glad to see that Sherlock has you. I worried about him. He's so...emotional."

"Emotional? Are we talking about the same Sherlock?" John asked.

"No, I don't mean... not in any obvious way. Not that you could see. I mean, those emotions that he can't help but feel. Anyway, I asked you here because I was curious. I wanted to learn more about you. How did you meet Sherlock?"

"Wasn't that in my blog?" John asked, "A friend of mine, Mike Stanford, introduced us when we were at Barts."

"So you were working there as a doctor?"

"No. Mike works at the medical school there. I was just ...I was invalided back from the war."

"You were a soldier?"

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure that I mentioned that."

"You said that you had got shot. I thought that he had met you at a robbery or something like that."

"No."

"Fascinating. And what does Sherlock think of that?"

"He calls me an idiot."

Victor laughed, "Some things never change. So how has Sherlock been? I noticed that he's stopped smoking."

"Yeah, I've been working on that, although he still does the patches from time to time. He said that you used to smoke as well."

"Yes I did. We smoked like a chimney back then, but I had to give it up for my health. Nasty habit really. Still take the odd cigarette when I'm stressed though."

"I was also curious," John said, "I know virtually nothing about you. Are you married?"

Victor gave him a brief smile, "Are you asking?" he said, and then he laughed at John's horrified expression. "No, I'm not married. Wife, family, not really my area."

"What is your area, I mean, if you don't mind my asking?"

"No, I don't mind," Victor said, "I don't _do_ relationships. I just, don't have the temperament for it. If I wasn't so...agnostic in my leanings I might have trained for the priesthood, but not being Catholic made that a bit difficult."

"I see. It's fine. I didn't mean to pry."

"Don't worry about it. People ask me all the time, although they usually don't say, 'it's fine'."

"What do they usually say?"

"Usually, they say _'Pity'_. And what about you John? Do you have plans? Wife, family, that sort of thing?"

"I just haven't found the right girl yet."

"Oh," Victor said pursing his lips. Then he took a sip of water and continued eating.

"There is one thing that I am dying to ask you about," John said. "Sherlock and you obviously get along like a house on fire. What happened between you? Why did you...part?"

Victor wiped his mouth with the napkin, folded it, and placed it down on the table. Then he sat back in his chair drumming his fingers on the glass tabletop. The sunlight streaming through the window glinted off of a pair of silver rings. "I graduated. I was offered a job in India, and I took it. That's the simple answer, and it's completely true, but in some ways it is completely false. The truth is that after my father died, I wanted to get as far away as possible from everything that reminded me of that time, and Sherlock... well Sherlock was definitely a reminder of my father's death. I left him behind. I also said some things that I regret, that's why I was glad that you gave me this opportunity to see him again. To mend in some small way the bridge that I burned at our last parting."

Then John heard what sounded like the chimes of Big Ben. "Excuse me," Victor said fishing out his phone and checking his messages. "Alas, I see that time has come upon me again. I have a meeting, and I'm sure that you're wanted back at the surgery, so thank you for a lovely meal. Let me pay."

"No. I don't..." John began, but Victor waved him down, chatting with the waitress as he paid. She bowed, and he bowed back before leaving in a swirl of brown and beige.

John looked down at his half-eaten plate. A single shrimp sat in the bottom of Victor's bowl.


	6. A Case

Victor came again that evening, rushing into the flat as if he had been pulled there by gravity, and perhaps he had, because Sherlock and he seemed to orbit around each other talking very rapidly about music and law, the boiling point of gallium and a which French verbs were not derived from Latin.

Watching them was like watching a tennis match. Actually given the speed it was more like watching a match of championship table tennis. They tossed ideas back and forth so fast that John could hardly follow them. When Sherlock stepped out of the room to take an urgent text from Lestrade, Victor told John of the time that they tossed a block of sodium into a fountain causing everyone to run for cover as it exploded.

"The police were called and everything," he said, "We escaped by hiding in a women's restroom until they passed."

The two of them laughed out loud at that until Sherlock poked his head into the kitchen, "John, Lestrade would like us to come immediately. You can wait here if you wish Victor, it shouldn't take too long."

John turned to Victor and asked, "Would you like to come along?"

"Victor wouldn't be interested in such things," Sherlock said, but Victor rose to his feet.

"I'd love to come along. I'm interested to see Sherlock work," he said.

John smiled, proud that Sherlock would have a chance to show off in front of his old friend, but Sherlock's face was filled with trepidation. He was completely silent as they rode in the cab. Riding between the two, John got a good look at both Sherlock's nervous expression and Victor's neutral one.

A tree-lined street in South London. Roofs, chimneys, and gardens disturbed by flashing lights and yellow tape. Sherlock swaggered toward the house, with the two of them in tow. Lestrade met him at the door as he came in. "Sorry to call you in on this one, but it's a personal request. This man is an acquaintance of my ex-wife's boss. Since you didn't have a case on, I thought... uh, who is this?"

"He's with me," Sherlock said in response to Lestrade's stare.

"Sherlock, you can't just bring anyone along to a crime scene. Come on, tell me who he is."

John answered, "This is Victor Trevor, an old friend of Sherlock's."

"Friend?" Anderson said mockingly, "How can a freak like him have two friends?"

Victor glared at Anderson. He walked over to the man until he stood inches from his face, and leaned forward without saying a word. Anderson backed away from him, then he turned and slinked off into the next room.

John had not realized before how physically imposing Victor Trevor was. He had all of Sherlock's height, but he was more muscled. Sherlock and Lestrade had been staring at the exchange, but as soon as Anderson left, Sherlock's attention was back on the case. "Well, where is it?" Sherlock said impatiently.

As Lestrade led them through a hallway, a boy of about six ran out of a room and bumped into John who bent down to look into his face, "Where's mummy?" the boy asked petulantly before a woman ran out distractedly and grabbed his shoulder.

"I said that you need to wait in here until your aunt and uncle can arrive to pick you up."

"My aunt was here, she left in the police car. Where is my mummy?"

"Mummy is busy talking to the policemen so come back into the room. We'll watch a movie."

The woman steered the boy away, and John continued on. Sherlock was already kneeling on the floor of the kitchen looking at the body of a man. "Stab wound, longish knife." He rose to his feet and pointed to the empty slot in a knife rack. "That knife. Attacker, 5' 3" or 5' 4" female, right handed. What's the story?"

"There was a party. This man's birthday party," Lestrade said. "The wife was fixing a special meal. Friends and family were on the patio mostly. The wife left to go to the store. When she returned, she and her guests found her sister standing over her dead husband crying out, _'I killed him! I killed him!'_ Someone called the police and here we are."

"This sounds fairly straightforward," John said. "You have a confession, you have a body, Why call us in?"

"Well, we took her to the station, but once there she changed her story. Said that she didn't kill him."

"Yes, but if there were witnesses to the confession..."

"The murder weapon, John. Where is the murder weapon? If she killed the man then she would have the knife on her. I take it that she did not."

"She did not. We're combing the area. Looking to see if someone was seen leaving the house..."

"Waste of time. This wasn't done by a stranger," Sherlock said, "The man was stabbed in the front. He saw his attacker, and he didn't believe that they were a threat. Look at what is within reach, a marble rolling pin, a steel pan, ample things to defend himself if he wanted to fight. He didn't fight. He didn't expect that she would hurt him."

Sherlock looked around the room, and then bent down beside the body. He reached one gloved finger into the man's pocket and pulled out a pair of lacy knickers. Then he rose to stare fixedly at Lestrade with a bored expression.

"What is it," Lestrade asked.

"It is beyond obvious, Lestrade, you hardly needed to call me in. The wife did it."

"What, how did you get that?" Lestrade asked.

"Are you blind? The motive is right here. Look at the woman that you have in custody. You will find that she is missing these. This is a simple domestic dispute. Next time, look a bit closer before calling me."

Sherlock handed the pants to Lestrade, and started to walk away but he stopped him with a hand to his arm. "Sherlock, can you at least tell us what you've found?"

"Yes, Sherlock," John said, "I'm interested. Tell us what happened here."

Sherlock looked over at John and then put his arms behind his back swiveling toward the body in preparation of showing off. He gestured at the counter.

"The wife is preparing a special meal for her husband's birthday. She goes to the store only to return and find him in the cupboard in a compromising position with her sister. The sister flees. The husband and wife have an argument. She takes the knife and stabs him."

"But how do you know that it's the wife and not the sister?" Lestrade asked.

"Look at the floor. New linoleum. It can't be more than a week old. See here and here. Marks where stiletto heels have pushed into the floor. The wife bought this floor. Is she going to walk on it with stiletto heels a week after buying it? Of course not. The wife is wearing flats. For a woman in heels to drive a knife deep enough into the chest of a man this size, she'd have to press down into the ground to get leverage."

He motioned with his arms as if he was stabbing someone.

"This is a big man. It would take some thrust to stab him, but there are no heel marks on the floor here. Also, the grocery bag is sitting on the counter near the cupboard."

"So?" John said.

"Isn't it obvious? If the wife returned home to see her husband's dead body, would she just continue into the kitchen and set them down over there? No! She would drop them on the floor, or put them beside the door. She came back early, walked over to the cupboard, put the cans on the counter, and then opened the door disturbing her husband and her sister. Then she came over here, picked up the knife, and stabbed her husband. Afterward, she left the room, returning with the guests after her sister had found his body. The words, '_I killed him_,' referred to the fact that he was killed because of what they had done. But she said nothing because she was loathe to come right out and accuse her own sister of murder. Sentiment. I can draw you a diagram if you'd like."

"That won't be necessary," Lestrade said.

"If that's all that happened, then where is the murder weapon?" Anderson asked from the doorway where he had crept in without their noticing.

Sherlock placed his hands before his mouth and then exclaimed, "Of course!" He walked across the kitchen and opened the oven, taking out a roast turkey. He reached his gloved hand inside and pulled out a dishtowel which he unwrapped to reveal the knife.

"Run the prints on this, I am sure that you will find that they match those of this man's wife."

"Amazing," John said as Lestrade motioned Anderson to take the knife. He did complaining the entire time about the heat.

Sherlock stepped over the body and out of the kitchen. He walked back through the house then, with John and Victor following. Victor stopped at an open door. Sherlock turned around to look at him. They could see the little boy sitting in his room, his legs swinging back and forth.

Victor pointed to the boy and said, "Look. Yet another family saved by your excellent deductive skills." Then he pushed past them and out of the house.

Sherlock flinched at his words as if he had been physically struck. He closed his eyes. John put a hand on his shoulder and led him out of the house, but Sherlock didn't say another word until they were back home in their flat.


	7. Mr Trevor

John gave Sherlock a cup of tea.

Sherlock slouched in his chair picking up the mug from the kitchen table and placing it carefully to his lips. John stirred milk into his own mug and then sat down across from Sherlock before speaking, "So, what was that all about?"John asked, "What did he mean by, 'Yet another...' "

"You don't have to repeat what he said, John!" Sherlock snapped. "I heard it perfectly well the first time. Victor is simply expressing his opinion on the work that I do. He doesn't approve of it."

"Doesn't approve of what? Solving crimes?"

"He believes that some things are better left unsaid. He always preferred fantasy to reality, stories to the real world. When I showed him that the '_Roman ruins'_ couldn't be from the Roman era, he said he'd rather believe that they were, because it was better that way. But the real reason that he is bitter is because of the events surrounding his father's death.

"I told you that it was his father who encouraged me in my profession. I owe a great deal to him for steering me in the right direction. I feel my current successes are entirely due to his early guidance, therefore when Victor called to tell me that his father was dying, I was eager to help.

"The story concerns a man, one Mr Hudson, no relation to our fine landlady although in temperament he was of a similar nature to her murderous husband. He came to the house one weekend while I was staying over with Victor. Victor's father had been in high spirits that morning. He suggested that we go fishing the next day, but that evening at dinner he canceled the outing. There was a cabin on the property from back when servants used to live on the estate. He told us that he had given the cabin to this Mr Hudson, and that he would live there and work as his new gardener.

"This was not, of itself, unusual. As I said, Mr Trevor was a generous and good-natured person, but he seemed to be afraid of this man. I left soon afterward as I had to finish my term. Victor graduated and we shared a bottle of wine at his flat. That cork that you found. That was a good day." Sherlock smiled. "Victor had already got the job offer from the company in India, but he was considering staying another year to take master's study. I think, that he was only considering it for me. To keep me from being lonely because I confessed to being distressed at the possibility of losing my only friend.

"It was the beginning of the long vacation, and Victor had already gone back home, but I still had work to finish, so I remained at Uni. I got a call from him then. He was frantic. He told me that his father was dying, and could I come down. I didn't have any transportation at the time, so Victor agreed to leave his father's deathbed to get me. He told me the story on the drive back. Mr Hudson was a rude and lazy man who despite his generous pay did no work around the house. Victor entreated his father on several occasions to put him out, but he would not. One day when he had been particularly insulting about Victor's father, Victor pushed him. He didn't hurt him, not physically. There was no mark on him, but he considered it a slight, and later his father asked Victor to apologize. Victor refused and the man left. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief except Mr Trevor who became more nervous than ever. Then he received a letter and promptly had a heart attack."

"It must have been some letter. What did it say?"

"I have it here," Sherlock said, walking into his room and returning with an envelope. He pulled out a sheet of white paper which he handed to John to read.

**The best video game company that is currently moving up the ranks, Hudson computer games has until recently told reporters that all games will run on Windows.**

"I don't understand," John said, "How could this have caused him any distress unless he was a computer game executive. It must be a code."

"Indeed. We arrived at the hospital, but we found that Mr Trevor had already died. The nurse told us that he had asked that Victor read a letter that he had left for him in his desk drawer.

"We returned to his home and found the letter. It was a confession. His father had been a soldier stationed in Borneo during the Indonesian-Malaysian confrontation. He controlled the supplies, but he was making money on the side by selling some of them. He was caught and imprisoned. He was being sent, with three other prisoners to the capital for court-martial when they were ambushed. It appeared that everyone had been killed, but Mr Trevor and one other prisoner escaped. Rather than continue on to the capital, they let themselves be assumed dead, and left the country taking on new names."

"That's desertion," John said, "And if he sold things to the enemy, they could even charge him with treason. He should have taken court-martial. He can't be a justice with a black mark like that on his record."

"Exactly, so you can understand how upset he was to find that one of the guards taking them to the capital had survived the attack."

"Hudson?"

"Yes, Hudson. Mr Trevor's real name was James Armitage. That's why the JA on his arm. Hudson threatened to reveal his past and that of the other prisoner who was going by the name of Beddoes. It is Beddoes who wrote that note. When Hudson left his house, he went to threaten him."

"The note? I read it, but what does it say?

"It is an extremely easy code. Try reading every third word, and the message becomes clear."

John picked up the letter and read each third word, "_The Game is up, Hudson has told all, run._" I see. So what became of Beddoes?"

"Suicide, and murder. If Hudson had proof of their desertion, Beddoes made sure that it was completely destroyed. But we didn't learn about that until the next day. After he read the letter, Victor was distraught. Very distraught.

"I... remained with him at the house all night. The next morning I took the evidence to the police. That's when we found the bodies of Beddoes and Hudson. I helped them with that. Beddoes had buried Hudson on the edge of a pond. I found the body, and the gun. The story was written up in the papers, and I did get some small acclaim for my part in it. You could say that it was my first case, but it hardly counts as Mr Trevor had told all of the difficult parts."

"But Victor, what did he think of all this?"

Sherlock bowed his head, and then grasped the mug in both hands as he took another drink. Then he said, "When I returned to the house that evening and told him what I had done, he struck me. He said that I had no right to reveal his father's secrets, certainly not without his consent. He said that his father had been a respected man, and that now everyone would see him as a criminal. He said that I had dragged his name and his father's through the mud.

"I told him that I was only revealing the truth. He said that such truths are best left hidden, and if I hadn't indulged in my ..._freakish_ habit of dissecting everyone, then his father might never have revealed the story to him in the first place.

"I asked him, _'Wouldn't you rather know the truth? Would you want to go to your grave never knowing your father's past?'_ and he said, _'Yes,_ _I would rather have died in blissful ignorance thinking on my father as a saint.'_ He said _'How can I walk through town now knowing that everyone is muttering behind their back about how my father was a thief and a deserter?'_ He gave me the keys to his car, and told me to take it and never come back."

Sherlock stopped talking then. He rubbed his eyelids and the two of them sat in silence for some minutes before John rose and made Sherlock a fresh cup of tea. He sat down then and said, "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm sorry if what I said or did hurt you. I should have asked before I invited Victor Trevor to our home."

John rose then and was about to go up to his room when he felt Sherlock's hand grab his. He turned back and Sherlock held it tighter. "John. You were right to call him. That time in my past has been left to fester like an open wound. I needed to see him again, even it it makes me bleed. I should never have doubted you. I should have known that my doctor would set it all right again." Sherlock looked up at John with soft eyes and a small, shy smile so like the one in the picture that John felt a pain in his chest. He turned and rushed out of the room.

* * *

It was late afternoon when Victor Trevor came to the flat for the last time. He brought a gift for Mrs Hudson, a brightly colored scarf from India which he said brought out the beauty in her eyes. To John he gave a set of four crystal wine glasses. To Sherlock he gave a small vial containing a silver-white cube held in clear oil.

"For whenever you need a laugh," Victor said.

Sherlock looked at it and laughed. At John's confused expression he said, "It's sodium."

John washed out the glasses, and they shared the last of the wine. The new glasses rang when they touched them together toasting _'to friends old and new_'. Mrs Hudson went back downstairs to her flat, her new scarf draped artfully around her shoulders, then Victor announced that it was time that he left if he was going to catch his flight.

Sherlock stood with one hand on the mantle. He turned to face them with an expression that looked lost. Victor gave him a sad smile, then he walked across the room and put one hand to his cheek before pulling him into a hug. Victor whispered something in his ear, and kissed his cheek before pulling away to walk down the stairs.

Sherlock watched as John escorted Victor out of the flat. When John returned he found Sherlock at the window. He stared out for a moment, his expression wistful, and then he breathed out sharply and shook his head dropping the curtain from his hand and striding into the kitchen.

John took the photo from the mantle looking at the two of them again. Victor trying to look cool with his white hat aslant on his head, clinging to his satellite, Sherlock, who rested under his arm with that open, trusting smile. John walked into Sherlock's room then, shoving aside shoes and hanging clothes until he found the box. He placed the photograph back inside it before pushing all of it to the very back of Sherlock's closet.

Sherlock had placed his microscope in the center of the kitchen table. He opened the cabinet, fishing out some specimens of hair and fingernails along with his notebook, then he sat down and began working again. John looked at his back for a long time, thinking of the young man he must have been and the older, stronger man that he had become. A man who knew who he was and who he wanted to be. John liked Sherlock as he was now: A smart man, a good man, and the only consulting detective in the world.


End file.
